


The Experiment

by iamisaac



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 03:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3103628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamisaac/pseuds/iamisaac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Luna is captured by Death Eaters and imprisoned in Malfoy Manor, it is Draco who acts as her gaoler. But it's not as simple as all that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Experiment

**Harry Potter [Draco/Luna] R**  
 **Title:** The Experiment  
 **Written For:** [](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=dysfuncentine)[](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=dysfuncentine)**dysfuncentine**  
 **Pairing:** Draco/Luna (brief mention of other pairing)  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Prompt:** You're being analyzed, all their eyes, all the time. You're the experiment... They walk around setting traps and sit and wait, hoping in secret that you'll take the bait so they can record the way you react. Everything's legal if you're still intact. ("The Experiment" by Rachel Macwhirter)  
 **Content Information/Warnings:** non-con, rape, pain, sadism, character death... anything depressing you can think of, really.  
 **Summary:** When Luna is captured by Death Eaters and imprisoned in Malfoy Manor, it is Draco who acts as her gaoler. But it's not as simple as all that.  
 **Author's Notes:**  
1\. A lot of the lines are totally stolen from Rachel Macwhirter's _The Experiment_ (link: <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QzTcgFIXdUw> ) I didn't know it before this fic, but I have fallen in love with it since I got the prompt. Prompter, I hope I did it justice.  
2\. This looks remarkably like part of _Deathly Hallows_ , so I think I should explain that in this AU scenario, Draco had been held back one year at school, and Luna two, making them both 18.  
3\. Many many thanks to my wonderful beta. <3  
4\. Word count is just under 3,000, FTR.

  
You knew you'd be caught, didn't you? You knew the Death Eaters would want you – and you knew they would get you if they chose to come after you. You are Harry Potter's friend – for your part, and you think for his too. He sees you as a friend, you know it, despite your being Luna. Loony Luna. Harry didn't mind. You'd have been on his side anyway, but he likes you. _He likes you._. It's strange, having friends. It still surprises you – a strange burst of disbelieving happiness, like a rainbow - but it doesn't change who you are.

It is almost a relief when they do get you; the waiting was so hard. The knowledge of your father's fear, seeping through the house and leaching into your skin, running through your blood like poison. Knowledge and fear, that dynamite mix. Knowing that your every thought was rebellion in the eyes of the Dark Lord's servants; probably also in the eyes of the Ministry... but thinking it anyway. You never were good at thinking what you ought to, about anything.

You don't struggle, which frustrates your captors. You stay still and quiet in their grasp, and you know they're not sure how to respond. You are placid – almost willing, reaching a hand out to grasp that of one of your enemies as they Apparate you into the grounds of a large, impressive building. White walls, ornate pillars, beautifully landscaped gardens. Even, you notice, a pure white peacock which prances outside the front entrance. It is perhaps the most amazing place you've seen apart from Hogwarts itself.

“Malfoy Manor,” snarls one of your captors. “ _Now_ you should be scared.”

The Malfoys; of course. The Dark Lord's willing servants – or _un_ willing servants, if you believed what was said when Voldemort was last defeated. But no one did believe it, even then; they just couldn't prove otherwise.

*

You never see the Dark Lord, but you know he's there. You know that ultimately, your fate lies in his hands. If he says nothing, it is implicit permission for his servants to kill you – as slowly, as tortuously as they like. But if he gives you his protection then no one would dare defy him. The strangest thing is, you don't know which of these outcomes you hope for.

*

After your captors, Draco Malfoy is the first person you see, locked as you are in a cold and lonely cellar. It shouldn't be a surprise – this is his home, after all. But you had been imagining him back at school, terrorising the first years or other younger children. Not here, not working for Him. Working for Voldemort. (You will not get to the stage where you fear even to think His name. You will not.)

“Loony Lovegood,” he says; and the sound of your school name inexpressibly cheers you. It is a reminder of who you are, of who you once were – a friend of Harry's, someone who mattered, if only in a small way.

“Hello, Draco,” you say, smiling at him. He takes half a step back towards the steps: whatever he was expecting, it was not this. “I hope you're well?”

“Yes,” he says automatically, “thanks.” Then he realises to whom he's speaking, and frowns. “None of your business, Lovegood.”

“That's good.” It occurs to you that Draco's health has never been so important to you: never before have you been his prisoner. But it would be unwise to point this out. And now you look at him, he is decidedly not looking his best, though he has always been pale. You've never really bothered to look at him closely before; there have been too many more interesting things to consider. “Is the Manor troubled by Wrackspurts?” you ask. That would explain his pallor. Once Wrackspurts get into a house, it's difficult to get rid of them all, though you know a useful charm.

“What? No. Shut up.” Draco glares at you, though he has taken another step backwards. That might be due to Wrackspurts, too: they're tricksy beasties.

“Are you sure?”

“Shut _up_. You're our prisoner now,” he yells, and slams the cellar door on his way out.

*

Then there is nothing. Nothing for days. Food appears in front of you occasionally; it seems to be totally random, but you have no idea of time, not down here in the Malfoy cellar. Perhaps you have only been here a few hours, not the week or more it feels like. Who knows? And why should you care? You can't answer that, but despite everything it does still matter. Humans, whether witch, wizard or Muggle, work to a schedule of day and night. Deprived of it, you are nevertheless determined not to be deprived of your humanity.

*

It is Draco you see again next, but he is not alone. You recognise his companion from pictures in _The Prophet_ ; pictures of a dark haired witch whose eyes looked dead before she even reached Azkaban. Bellatrix Lestrange. She throws a curse at you – jolts of pain go through your body, and you gasp several times, trying to get oxygen to your screaming lungs – and then she turns away, disappointed.

“This one is no fun,” she complains to Draco. “Too easily hurt. I like more of a challenge. You can have her.”

You've been dismissed by so many people for so many reasons. Never have you felt so grateful. Draco Malfoy is a known quantity, and even now, you can't believe he's truly evil, though you know you might be wrong. Your eyes meet his, however, and it is he who looks away.

*

From time to time, you are allowed out, for a quick wash in cold water. There's never any privacy in these moments – ironic, when you get almost too much of your own company the rest of the time. Of course, Voldemort and his Death Eaters probably don't realise that of all the people they could do this to, you are the least likely to break. You are far too used to solitude.

You've coped this far by rejecting any of the darkest of your thoughts, pushing them away and thinking of something else. There is always so much to think about, so many happy, or at any rate interesting, things. For example, you know by now that the cellar is longer on one side than the other by approximately the length of your little finger. Why is this? So many possibilities have occurred to you.

“Whatever you like, so long as she's still intact.” It is in one of your brief exoduses that you hear the Dark Lord's words; and you know that they refer to you. And for a while you feel safe – safer, at any rate. You never feared death so much, but no matter how much you pushed away the idea, you feared something else. And He has spoken out against that. They might hurt you, might torture you with words and actions until you scream with pain, but they won't cross that boundary. Won't – even now, your brain shies away from the word – won't _rape_ you. It is too soon that you realise that bodies have no place in Voldemort's idea of 'intact'.

 

*

You don't know when it is that you realise that Draco is scared too. More scared than you, perhaps, because you've never cared that much about your life, and Draco is desperate to keep his. Even his desperation can't force him into utter ruthlessness, though: despite knowing that raping you, beating you into unconsciousness in public, would bring him praise, he still can't do it. A strange time to start admiring the boy, but you realise you like him much better than you used to, despite everything.

Sometimes you wonder who the trap's being set for – you, or him. Perhaps you are only the bait; the real intended experiment is on Draco, seeing whether he'll succeed or fail. Cruel monster, or coward? And what answer does the Dark Lord hope for?

*

He twists and turns around it. He twists and turns around you. Draco doesn't want to hurt you; and in a way that gives him more power to hurt you than he ever could have had without it. You both hurt when you hurt. He casts cruel spells, especially when people are there to see him. But intent is so much in magic and he really doesn't want to cause you pain, so the spells are insipid shadows of what they might be. And there's a look in his eyes as he mutters the incantations – sometimes you think this really does hurt him more than it hurts you.

Where is the Draco Malfoy you knew at school, able to be casually cruel, even without meaning to? He has seen too much now; he knows what the Dark Lord wants, what it will mean. It was all right when it was just an idea, a theory. Now real people are hurting, are dying. Draco thought he knew what ruthlessness meant, but he didn't. Rich, pampered, loved: Draco spent years in a protective bubble he didn't even know existed until it was gone. How could he have had any sympathy, any understanding of what it meant to suffer, cosseted as he was? Now he knows, and you see the fear and guilt as he casts those spells.

 

*

“I can't help it,” he whispers, when it finally comes to the point you've both known was coming. Draco is looking for absolution, even now.

“I know,” you tell him. An expression which might (in another lifetime) have been a smile crosses your face – the shadow of a smile, perhaps? But you freely give him the absolution he seeks. What would you gain by refusing him, except to cause more misery in a world already so full of pain? “I forgive you.”

His fingers tremble as they rip your robes apart. He has always been pale-faced, but now, with black rimmed eyes, he is paper-white. _If his hair was dark, he might look like a panda_ , you think, and this time your smile is genuinely there. His hands, cold on your breasts, bring you back to the moment. His nails digging into your skin. Amazing how such pale fingertips can bring such fire-red pain, such deep purple markings on your flesh. You grasp your own hair in one hand and pull, distracting yourself from his pain by causing your own. You hear the mocking laugh of a Death-Eater, reminding you that you're being watched. How many other times when you thought you were alone were their watching eye upon you? You've known better for some time: the whole place is wired. They know everything you do; you’re being analysed, all their eyes, all the time.

Draco pushes you back against the stone wall. _His_ stone wall; his fortress, Malfoy Manor. Except it is not his, not now. It is Voldemort's. He is Voldemort's. You are not the only possession in this room, except you are not expected to pretend to enjoy the experience. They chop and change his life, as they chop and change yours, both of you only kept here for the entertainment you provide. Poor entertainment would lead to an end to this torment; perhaps it is foolish of you to resist, to demonstrate that whatever they may do with your body, your mind is not broken. Perhaps all you achieve is to subject yourself and Draco to more and more. Nowhere's safe for Draco, not even his mind. The legilimency powers of the Dark Lord are renowned; Draco's Aunt Bellatrix is no amateur, either. You at least have yourself – what does Draco have?

He has you too – or he will have, soon. He will take you and thrust himself inside you in a show of force. You think of the Ravenclaw motto. _Wit without measure is man's greatest treasure._ Rape without pleasure... That is, must be, man's lowest measure.

*

It's better when it isn't Draco. Is that stupid? Is it ridiculous to prefer being with people who _want_ to hurt you, want to break you? Rodolphus Lestrange, Draco's uncle. He wants you to hurt, doesn't care how. Emotional pain isn't a priority; he is all physical. All about breaking your body and hoping your mind will follow. Breaking your fingers, deliberately, one by one; then mending them so he can break them again, watching your face as he does it the second time, both of you knowing what is coming. It’s so fascinating, the way that you move when he hurts you.

Creeping, creepy Wormtail. Who loves to run his hands all over you - who pushes your knickers aside and comes within seconds of entering you. Pasty-faced and twitching, he revolts you and he knows he does; his rape is apologetic, almost embarrassed, but he'll do it as many times as he can, as many times as they'll let him. He wants it, wants you, and he hates you for the fact that he knows you don't want him back. He sneaks in on you as you're sleeping; the first thing you know is his clammy touch, soft and wet against your skin. He pushes your hand towards his cock, as if placing your fingers there will show you asked for it. Once, in childhood, you rescued a bird from a cat. You dug up maggots to feed it; they slipped and slid like his penis in your hand. You remember the bird, flying away from you, your joy and the bird's merging in its freedom. Wormtail - “call me Peter,” he whispers as he fucks you – loves your captivity, the fact that you can't reject him, can't fly like runaway birds.

*

You know instinctively when your time is running short. Even Wormtail visits less often; he has taken everything he knows how to, and now you bore him – just another person to remind him how far he's fallen from what he once was. Other, newer, captives have been taken; and the Lestranges prefer to practice their dark arts on them. Only Draco still visits often, looking more wan, more hopeless, every time you see him. He casts the spells with such little conviction that surely no on-looker could possibly be deceived; and you have never been able to dissimulate convincingly. You're no idiot: given these circumstances, you know your song is ending. There's no point in hiding from it.

*

The day comes.

“I'm sorry.” They are the first words Draco says to you, and you know what they mean. He says, “I asked -” and then cuts off abruptly. “They've finished with you,” he says finally. “I heard Him say it – you know...” He still can't say Voldemort's name, even now.

“Yes, I know,” you say, smiling faintly.

Draco looks greyish green; cold – almost frozen. “'The experiment's over', He said. And then they sent me for you.” He clenches his fingers tightly, and you can see the strain in his tendons. “'The experiment',” he repeats; then, as if he can't help himself, he adds, “You were never that to me.”

You lean forward, kiss him gently on the lips.

“Oh Draco,” you whisper – and you hurt for him, you truly do. “It's not me; it never was about me.”

“I don't understand,” he says; but at last he does, and you can see it in his face.

You say it anyway. “ _You're_ the experiment. They've walked around setting traps, then sat and waited, hoping in secret that you’ll take the bait so they can record the way you react. I'm nothing, Draco – just the bait. Just that.”

His fingers grasp your wrists so hard, so firm. There are tears in his eyes, something you never imagined you'd see. “No, Luna,” he says, as he leads you forward to your death. “You were always more than that.”

And this time it is he who kisses you. And then you wait for the green flash you know will come – and hope for Draco's sake it comes to him too, soon.


End file.
